


The Smell of Sleep

by Writing-Classic-Rock (writingfanfic)



Category: Tom Petty (Musician)
Genre: Comfort, F/M, Nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-28
Updated: 2018-05-28
Packaged: 2019-05-15 03:32:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14782862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingfanfic/pseuds/Writing-Classic-Rock
Summary: For the prompt: 'request: a fic where tom petty wakes the reader from a nightmare'.Sure thing! I am a big sleeptalker so this may be a little autobiographical.





	The Smell of Sleep

Someone is stroking your face, and you are talking. You don’t remember starting to talk, but what you are repeating – a garbled, nonsensical mash of syllables, suddenly goes from feeling perfectly sensible to utterly ridiculous, and you bat whoever it is away, blinking a little.

“Baby?”

“MmmTom?” you mumble, and a kiss is gently and fearfully pressed to your cheek. “What… what time is it?”

“It’s 3 in the morning, sweetheart. You were… having some kinda dream,” Tom says gently, and you blink into the darkness. You can just make out his outline in the dark, his hair hanging like gossamer curtains in the faint light from outside, and then he nuzzles up next to you, pulling you close. “You woke me up, tryin’ to tell me something.”

“What did I say?” you mumble, burying your face in his chest. He smells of sleep – that warm, heavy smell of sweat and the bedsheets, and you grip onto his hipbone to secure yourself. Details of your dream are bleeding back to you, and it wasn’t pleasant. “I had a nightmare.”

“You just kept… like… there were words in there, but you didn’t make sense, you weren’t making sense, honey.” He strokes your hair, and you shake your head, breathing in his warmth for a moment more. “Wanna talk about it?”

“Not really,” you whisper. You don’t remember enough to be comfortable, but you remember feeling that threat and danger that only dreams can give you, and you were trying to run but you were in that dream-treacle that means the monsters can catch you and- you realise when his hand, warm and solid, settles on your back, that you are breathing a little too fast, and exhale slowly. “I don’t really know.”

“Okay, baby.” He presses his lips to you, and you cling onto him tightly. “Well, I’m here. I got you, and I’m not gonna let you go, not ever.” That hair tickles your neck, and you smile, kissing his ribs gently. “You feel okay to go back to sleep? ‘cause we can go for a drive.”

“I think I’ll be okay, honey,” you murmur, and you close your eyes, listening to the hum of the motel sign and the softness of his breathing as it slows into sleep.


End file.
